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Innocent In The Billionaire's Bed
Clare Connelly
Tempted by the tycoon's touch…Rio Mastrangelo doesn’t want anything from the father who never acknowledged him. So when he unexpectedly inherits an island paradise, he’s determined to sell it as fast as he can! But the potential purchaser who lands on his shores is not the spoiled heiress he's been expecting—and her luscious body fills him with a rush of hot, undeniable desire.Cash-strapped Tilly Morgan accepted a payment to impersonate her best friend, but she hadn't bargained on sexy Rio. When a storm hits, trapping them together, there's nowhere to run from their raging hunger—and passion threatens to uncover Tilly's every vulnerability…


Tempted by the tycoon’s touch...
Rio Mastrangelo doesn’t want anything from the father who never acknowledged him. So when he unexpectedly inherits an island paradise, he’s determined to sell it as fast as he can! But the potential purchaser who lands on his shores is not the spoiled heiress he’s been expecting—and her luscious body fills him with a rush of hot, undeniable desire.
Cash-strapped Tilly Morgan accepted a payment to impersonate her best friend, but she hadn’t bargained on sexy Rio. When a storm hits, trapping them together, there’s nowhere to run from their raging hunger—and passion threatens to uncover Tilly’s every vulnerability...
Rio’s hands lifted to Tilly’s shoulders. His expression was dark.
Without make-up, her skin glowing from the shower, her hair pulled up into another messy bun, and with a tiny towel barely covering her, she was the most desirable woman he had ever seen. Rio glided his hands over her upper arms, but he wanted more. His hand moved to the back of her towel, pushing her towards him. She connected with his body—by design this time. She was soft and small, her curves fitting perfectly to him, as though they’d been designed for one another.
Her lashes were too dark—feathered fans against her flushed cheeks. And the small moan she made sent his pulse into overdrive. Would she moan when they made love? Would her pillowy lips part, breathing those sweet sounds into the air?
His need was a tsunami inside him, crashing inexorably towards land. She was the shore, she was the anchor, and he was powerless to fight the pull of her tide. Rio had never considered himself powerless before. But he didn’t care.
He lifted his hand to her face, cupping her cheek and sweeping the ball of his thumb over her lower lip. Her eyes flew open, pinning him with the same tsunami of need that was ravaging his defences.
‘We shouldn’t do this,’ she said quietly, but her hips pushed forward, moving from side to side in ancient silent invitation.
His fingers plaited through her hair, pulling it from the bun, running through the ends. ‘We shouldn’t,’ he agreed darkly.
CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Mills & Boon book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign she is in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Mills & Boon novels continue to be her favourite ever books. Writing for Modern Romance is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com (http://www.clareconnelly.com) or at her Facebook page.
Books by Clare Connelly
Mills & Boon Modern Romance
Bought for the Billionaire’s Revenge
Visit the Author Profile page
at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.
Innocent in the Billionaire’s Bed
Clare Connelly


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Amy Andrews—
It was friendship at first sight.
Contents
Cover (#u0050fb20-32ce-57e9-8568-4a0b045477c4)
Back Cover Text (#u1b211e3b-954e-5914-98ca-66c811bdbb53)
Introduction (#ud8acc62f-0983-5441-8017-4aed6826c4e5)
About the Author (#u8d8dc4fd-d89f-58c5-9d46-8e61a8c9b906)
Title Page (#u653c576e-9657-5822-abef-763e8627f2ec)
Dedication (#u83ddb58d-b51f-5dae-8294-bd1771cab69a)
PROLOGUE (#u909521ae-0834-57f4-a9fb-78ee8757b883)
CHAPTER ONE (#u11a611d0-5103-5b95-b554-89782730cfcc)
CHAPTER TWO (#u3f171da7-5b20-514d-94fd-a95e5b40de96)
CHAPTER THREE (#u77397cd7-1fd3-5019-96fc-945e68c01288)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ub3c0b4c4-687e-561e-81a2-6692892f0584)
IT WAS STRANGE that here, on an island where she’d spent only a few weeks of her life, Rio should feel so close to his mother. It was almost as if her presence roamed the walls of the shack, or drifted in off the salted waves that were rolling towards him. He didn’t see her here as she’d been at the end, so weakened and ill. Here he imagined her free, running across the sand, her laugh tumbling out of her of its own volition.
He cradled his Scotch, swirling it slightly so the ice chipped against the glass. The sound was swallowed by the surrounds of the island. The beach, the birds, the rustling of the trees. Even the stars seemed to be whispering to one another—and there were so many stars visible from this island in the middle of the sea, far from civilisation.
Rosa had loved it here.
He didn’t smile as he thought of his mother.
Her life had been shaped by loss and hardship, right to the end. And now he sat on the island of the man who could have alleviated so much of that pain, if only he’d bothered or cared.
No.
The island was no longer Piero’s.
It was Rio’s.
A too-little-too-late offering that Rio sure as hell didn’t want.
Even now, a month after his father’s death, Rio knew he’d been right to reject him. To reject any overtures at reconciliation.
He wanted nothing to do with the powerful Italian tycoon—never had, never would. And as soon as he’d offloaded this damned island he’d never think of the man again.
CHAPTER ONE (#ub3c0b4c4-687e-561e-81a2-6692892f0584)
‘CRESSIDA WYNDHAM?’
This was the time to correct the lie. To be honest. If she wanted to back out of this whole damned mess, then she should just say so here.
No, I’m Matilda Morgan. I work for Art Wyndham.
But her back was well and truly against the wall this time. What had started out as an occasional favour for the high-maintenance heiress had turned into an obligation she couldn’t really escape. Especially not having accepted thirty thousand pounds for this particular ‘favour’. She’d been bought and paid for, and the consequences would be dire if she didn’t go through with the plan.
Besides, it was only for a week. What could go wrong in seven sunny days?
‘Yes...’ she heard herself murmur, before recalling that she was supposed to be acting the part of an heiress to a billion-pound fortune. Mumbling into her cleavage wasn’t really going to cut it.
She lifted her head, forcing herself to meet the man’s eyes with a bright smile. It froze on her face as recognition dawned.
‘You’re Rio Mastrangelo.’
His expression gave nothing away. That wasn’t surprising, though. Illario Mastrangelo was somewhat renowned for his ruthless dynamism. He was reputed to have a heart of ice and stone—he walked away from any deal unless he could get it on his terms. Or so the stories went.
‘Yes.’
The speedboat was rocking rhythmically beneath her. Was that why she felt all lurching and odd? She looked to the driver of the boat—a short man with a gappy smile and weathered skin—but he was engrossed in his newspaper. No help there.
‘I had expected to meet with an estate agent,’ she said, because the silence was thick and she needed to break it.
‘No. No agent.’ He stepped into the shallow water—uncaring, apparently, that his jeans got wet to just below his knees.
No agent. Great.
Cressida had been explicit that there would be.
‘It’s going to be you, some man from an estate agency, and whatever servants come with the island. Just tell them all that you want to spend time on your own to really get a sense of the place and then relax! You’ll get to chill all day, get fed gourmet meals—perfect holiday. Right? It’s no big deal.’
No big deal.
Only, looking at Rio Mastrangelo, Tilly thought the exact opposite was true. He was both a big deal and a big deal-maker, and she was hopelessly out of her depth even in the crystal-clear shallows that lapped against the side of the beautiful boat.
‘Have you got a bag?’
‘Oh, right...’ She nodded, reaching for the Louis Vuitton duffle Cressida had insisted on Tilly bringing.
Rio took it and lifted his eyes to her, a look of glinting curiosity in his expression.
Her stomach rolled in time with the waves. He was far more handsome in person. Or maybe she’d never really paid proper attention.
She knew bits and pieces about him. He was a self-made real estate tycoon. He’d been on the news about a year earlier, interviewed because he had bought a large parcel of land in the south of London to develop. She remembered because she’d been glad; there was a beautiful old pub there—one of the oldest in London, with wonky floors and leaning walls—and she’d worked there for a summer after she’d left school. The idea of it being knocked down had saddened her, and Rio had said in the interview that he intended to rejuvenate it.
‘You travel light,’ he remarked.
Tilly nodded. She’d thrown a few bikinis into the bag, along with a pair of flip-flops, a few books, and some of her go-to summer dresses. Perfect for a week alone on a tropical island.
He slung the bag over his shoulder and then lifted a hand towards her. She stared at it as though he’d turned into a frog.
‘I can manage,’ she said stiffly, wincing inwardly at the prim intonation of her words.
Cressida was definitely not prim. A snob of the first order, yes, but prim...?
Please. Cressida’s antics generally made a trip to Ibiza look like a visit to a retirement village. Cressida’s father—Tilly’s boss—had been thrilled that Cressida had shown a little interest in the business finally, and agreed to visit this island and scout it as a potential hotel site.
Rio Mastrangelo wasn’t Hollywood handsome, Tilly mused as she moved towards the dark stairs that dipped into the back of the boat. Not in that boy-next-door, blond, blue-eyed way that she usually found impossible to resist. Nor was he corporate and conventional, as she would have expected. He was...wild. Untamed.
The words came to her out of nowhere, but as she risked a sidelong glance at him she knew instantly that she was right.
His skin was a dark brown all over, and his lower face was covered in a thick stubble that spoke of having not shaved for days, rather than an attempt to cultivate a fashionable facial hair situation. His eyes were wide-set and a dark grey that would match the ocean at its deepest point. They were rimmed with thick charcoal lashes, long and spiked in curling clumps. His hair was jet-black and it turned outwards at the ends, where it brushed the collar of his shirt.
He had the kind of physique that spoke of an easy athleticism. He was tall, broad-shouldered and leanly muscled. His forearms flexed even as he held her bag.
It was those eyes, though, she thought, turning her attention back to the twin masterpieces in his face.
She felt as though she’d been slapped. They locked to hers: grey warring with green. The boat lurched again. She reached down to the polished timber rail to steady herself, her manicured fingers running over it for strength.
She’d chosen a simple dress for the flight to Italy. It was a designer brand, but she’d picked it up in a charity shop a long time ago—before this crazy plan had even been hatched. It was turquoise—her favourite colour. It complemented her eyes and set off the auburn highlights in her long cherry-red hair. And her skin, though nowhere near as deep a tan as Rio’s, looked golden all over. She’d chosen the dress because it looked good on her and she’d wanted to look good. But not for Rio.
She’d chosen it for the photographers who might snap her passing through Rome’s airport, or travelling on the ferry to Capri. For the tourists with cell phones who would recognise Cressida Wyndham, her doppelgänger, en route to a luxurious Mediterranean holiday. She’d kept her head bent, as though she really was an heiress avoiding attention, but she’d courted it at the same time.
She’d chosen to wear the dress for those reasons.
For Rio, she suspected, she would be safer wearing a nun’s habit.
Anything to discourage his eyes from drifting over her in that slow, curious way they had.
She understood the speculation in them; she’d met enough men in her twenty-four years to know what interest looked like. Cursed, in many ways, with the kind of curves most women would kill for, Tilly had long ago come to despise her generous cleavage, neat waist and rounded bottom. There was something about her figure that seemed to signal to men that she wanted to strip naked and jump into their bed.
The boat shifted again, as a wave rolled beneath it, and she paused, reaching for the rail once more. The driver had backed it as close as possible to the shore but even so it wouldn’t be possible to disembark from the boat without getting her feet wet. She slipped her shoes off and hooked them with her finger, self-consciously aware that Rio was watching her from the shallows of the ocean.
She stepped down, and at the bottom moved to disembark from the luxury craft. But she mistimed it—badly. Another wave rolled and she lost her footing, stumbling almost completely into the water.
Rio caught her, of course. With Cressida’s bag hoisted safely over one shoulder, and taking only a single, long step in Tilly’s direction, he swept his arm around her back at just the moment she would have gone completely underwater.
He pulled her upright, his eyes crinkled with mocking amusement.
He was even more devastatingly handsome up close, where she could see the freckles that danced on his aquiline nose and appreciate the depths of his eyes, which weren’t just grey. They had flecks of black and green in there too, swirling together in a combination of shapes and colours that she could stare at all day.
‘I thought you could manage?’ he prompted.
Tilly was stricken. What a fool she was! Cressida would never have fumbled such a basic manoeuvre as exiting a speedboat. No, Cressida would have taken his damned hand when he’d offered it and run her fingernails over his palm, encouraging him to stare at her all he wanted. Inviting him to do much more than that.
Matilda Morgan, though, was a Grade A klutz. Falling off a speedboat was just the kind of thing her twin brother Jack would have laughed about, and she would have joined him. Tilly never missed a chance to be amused by her own lack of finesse.
She heard the amusement escape from her mouth as a giggle at first, and then finally a full-blown laugh, though she lifted a hand to cover it.
‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled up at Rio, lifted a hand around his neck in an automatic response. ‘I’m perhaps the clumsiest person you’ll ever meet.’
Her laugh, and the admission of a lack of coordination hot on its heels, caught him unawares.
When Art Wyndham had said he’d be sending his daughter Cressida to complete an inspection of Prim’amore Rio had felt mixed emotions.
On the one hand, the beautiful heiress was known to be vapid and uninterested—he suspected he’d have her desperate to buy the island in a day or two at the most. And on the other, from what he’d heard of the mogul’s daughter, Cressida Wyndham was the kind of woman he had only ever found good for one thing. She was all beauty, no substance, and she was the last person he’d willingly spend time with—except, possibly, in his bed.
But he had to admit her laugh was lovely. Like music and sunshine.
Still smiling, she pushed away from him, standing on her own two feet. ‘I’m fine,’ she assured him. ‘Just a little wet.’
He made a guttural noise of agreement and then released her abruptly. ‘You can dry off inside.’
He nodded towards the shoreline and for the first time her attention moved to the island. It was lush and green, right in front of them, but a little way further down she could see dark red cliffs that were bare of greenery. High above them there was more red, like ochre, and then in the distance the hint of trees—cypress, olive and citrus, she guessed. Back down on the coastline the sand was crisp white in both directions. Only one building broke up the expanse of beach.
A boathouse of sorts, it was of simple construction, a cross between a cabin and a hut. It was whitewashed stone, and the window frames had been painted a bright blue at one time—though a lot of the paint looked to have chipped off now. There was a small deck at the front, with two cane armchairs propped on either side of a small card table. A jaunty pot plant that had clearly been tormented by the wind stood sentinel at the door, though it had grown heavily in one direction, casting a diagonal shadow. To the side of the cabin a motorbike was propped, and beside it a speedboat on a trolley, smaller than the one she’d just stepped off—or rather leaped off into the ocean.
It was on the tip of Tilly’s tongue to ask Rio what the building was, but he was already moving towards it. Sand clung to his bare feet as he strode easily across the beach. She didn’t rush to catch up. Not because Cressida wouldn’t rush, though she wouldn’t. Tilly was captivated by the beauty of this place and she wanted to savour this, her first opportunity to drink it in.
Halfway between the shoreline and the cabin she stopped walking altogether. A light breeze trembled past her, but it was a hot day and it brought welcome relief to her through her wet clothes. She stared up at the sky, her eyes noting the colour—a glistening cerulean blue.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said to herself.
But Rio caught the words and turned. Her dress was saturated all the way to the top. Did she have any idea that she might as well have been standing on the beach completely naked, for all the fabric did to hide her body? Her red hair was trapped in a messy bun on top of her head but he was pretty sure it wanted to be free, to fly down her back as it might have done on Boudica or one of Titian’s models.
He turned back to the cabin, his jaw clenched.
Of course she knew how alluring she looked. Cressida Wyndham had made flirtation an art form. He didn’t really know anything about her, and nor did he read the gossip magazines, but he did know that her name couldn’t be mentioned without the implication that she was an entitled, spoiled tramp with little morality.
And for some reason that angered him now.
He paused at the steps that led to the deck. They were timber, built from one of the trees that covered the island.
‘What’s this?’ she asked, her green eyes, almond in shape, moving across the frame of the hut.
‘Where we’ll be staying.’
Where we’ll be staying? Her heart skidded against her breastbone. Surely he’d meant Where you’ll be staying? Though he spoke English fluently, his voice was accented. It wasn’t inconceivable that he’d made a mistake.
Because this place was definitely not going to accommodate the two of them.
He moved ahead of her and she followed.
‘It was built around fifty years ago,’ he said as he shouldered the door inwards. It groaned a little. It was just wire pressed against an ornate wrought-iron pattern. There was no actual door.
The heat of the day hadn’t managed to penetrate the thick walls. It was cool and dark. A hallway—quite wide, given the size of the building—went all the way to the back of the home, though at the rear, she glimpsed a sofa. There was more light there, too.
‘Your bedroom.’ He nodded towards a room as they swept past. She had only a brief impression of a narrow single bed and a bookshelf. He nodded to another door. ‘My bedroom.’
Her heart thumped harder.
‘Bathroom.’
She peered in as they walked past. It was simple, but clean. It smelled of him. She caught the masculine scent as they walked past and her stomach squeezed.
‘And the kitchen.’
It was also simple, but charmingly so, with a thick timber bench, a window that overlooked the beach, a small fridge and a stove. There was a table with four chairs, and across the room a sofa and an armchair. Another larger window framed a different perspective of the beach.
‘Your...your bedroom is...opposite mine?’ The words were almost a whisper and she shivered.
‘Surely you didn’t think we’d be sharing?’ he prompted, enjoying the blush that spread across her face and the way her nipples stretched visibly against the wet fabric of her skin-tight dress.
‘Of course not,’ Tilly snapped, before remembering that she was Cressida, and Cressida would never have taken offence at such a suggestion. She would have purred right back that he shouldn’t rule anything out... ‘I just didn’t realise we’d be staying in the same house.’
His smile was laced with sardonic amusement. ‘It’s the only house on the island,’ he said. ‘Didn’t your father tell you?’
She shook her head, but questions were floating through her mind...suspicions. Shortly after Cressida had said there’d be servants she’d said that Tilly would be left to her own devices. She’d made it sound like a glamorous beach retreat awaited.
Had she known that Rio Mastrangelo would be literally shacking up with her? Had she wisely decided to keep that titbit to herself, knowing that Matilda would have found it impossible to go along with such an elaborate deception in close quarters with a man like him?
‘He must have,’ Tilly said with a shrug, as though it didn’t matter, but inside she was fuming.
If she hadn’t desperately needed that thirty thousand pounds, how she would have loved to tell Cressida to go to hell!
Only she wouldn’t have. She couldn’t have. For, as much as the heiress drove her absolutely crazy, Tilly felt sorry for her. And the longer Tilly worked for Art and felt the warmth of his affection, the more she saw him disapprove of Cressida and ruminate on her lack of intelligence, skills and focus, and the more guilt Tilly felt—and more pressure too.
This was the first time Cressida had ever asked Tilly for more than an easy favour, though. And certainly the first time she’d outright lied to her! This wasn’t going to a film premiere dressed to the nines, or slipping out of a top-notch restaurant early to divert the paparazzi’s focus. This was a whole week in close quarters with a gorgeous stranger.
‘And you forgot?’ he responded with a droll inflection.
‘There were a lot of instructions.’ She forced herself back to the present, pushing aside the sticky question of just what Cressida had kept to herself to get Tilly on board with this deception. Were there any more surprises in store for her?
‘Such as?’
‘Such as don’t fall out of boats.’ The snappy response was watered down by a spontaneous smile. ‘Mind if I get changed?’
Yes, he wanted to say. He liked watching her in this dress. Seeing the way it clung to her was flooding his body with desire—desire he wouldn’t indulge with her, of course.
Yet he hadn’t been himself since hearing of his father’s death. His libido—something he liked to give free rein to, often—had taken a hit in recent times. Feeling his body stir to life was good. It was nice. He revelled in the sensation of anticipation, knowing that relief would be worth the wait.
He wouldn’t give in to temptation with Cressida—that would be foolish. But once he left the island he’d call Anita or Sophie, or one of the other women always happy to join him in bed and rediscover some very pleasurable habits.
‘Make yourself at home,’ he said, with a shrug that was the personification of nonchalance.
She nodded, her eyes not meeting his. He was still holding her bag and he made no attempt to hand it over. She crossed the tiled floor until she was within arm’s reach. At this distance she could see the flecks of black that marked his grey eyes, and she caught more of that enticingly masculine fragrance.
‘I’ll need some dry clothes,’ she prompted, a smile tickling her full lips as she nodded towards the duffle.
He unhooked the bag from his shoulder and passed it to her. She reached for it without looking downwards and her fingers curved over his.
It was like being bitten by a snake.
She immediately released her grip on the bag and he did likewise, so that it dropped with a thump to the floor.
‘Sorry,’ she said breathlessly, as though it had somehow been her fault rather than an involuntary reaction to the spark of electric shock that had travelled through her fingertips and flooded her entire body.
‘What for?’ he murmured, reaching down for the bag.
Her frown was spontaneous. Neither Tilly nor Cressida were prone to inane, babbling apologies. ‘I don’t know.’
His laugh tickled her overstretched nerve-endings; it was a deep, throaty sound and she imagined his voice would be husky like that when he was driven by other emotions. A charge of awareness surprised her and she felt her nipples strain hard against the fabric of her bra.
His eyes dropped to them and his lips flickered in a droll smile of sardonic appreciation. ‘Go and get changed, Cressida,’ he said, dismissing her.
It was on the tip of her tongue to challenge him, Or what? when he replied, ‘Before it’s too late.’
Too late? A frisson of awareness pulsed through her, teasing her spine and making her shiver.
She took the bag from him and moved quickly down the hallway towards the bedroom he’d marked as hers.
Too late for what?
Her mind pushed away the most obvious reading of the statement—that there was some inevitability that they were running from. It was a silly interpretation, no doubt fuelled by her propensity to read far too many romance novels.
She kept her head ducked until she reached the door he’d indicated would lead to her own accommodation.
Her first assessment had been right.
There was a small bed, a bookshelf, and a hat rack near a high, small window that had geraniums in a window box, creeping halfway up the glass in an enthusiastic display of clustered red.
There was a mirror too, and she caught her reflection and moaned audibly. She looked... She might as well be naked. The fabric of her dress had turned a dark green and it hugged her tightly, moulding her breasts, her stomach, her bottom, and clinging in a V to her womanhood.
Her fingers shook as she went to remove it quickly, stripping it off her shoulders and pushing it from her body. The sight of her bra and G-string wasn’t any better. Angrily she discarded them, until she was naked, still wet, but not caring.
Her phone was in the side pocket of her bag and she lifted it out. The picture of her and Jack smiled at her when she activated it, and for a moment she felt her stomach swoop in relief. He would be okay. She’d made sure of it. This week was a small price to pay for his safety. What the hell had he been thinking?
She swiped her phone to life and flicked up the emails.
An error message appeared. With a frown, she realised there was no internet. No signal whatsoever, in fact.
A grim sense of being completely and utterly alone with Rio Mastrangelo sent a shiver down her spine.
How could Cressida do this to her? The more Tilly thought about it, the more convinced she was that Cressida had lied. But why? What could be so important that she’d orchestrate this deception? She obviously hadn’t wanted to risk Tilly saying no—which she would have, had she known about this tiny shack and the drop-dead gorgeous billionaire only a wall away. Damn her!
Well, this would be the end of it. Once she got back to London she’d tell Cressida that their arrangement was at an end.
She ripped at the zip of the bag, pulling it roughly and lifting out another dress. But it was low at the front, and she didn’t want to wear anything that might feed into the idea Rio had of her.
Cressida Wyndham, with her fake breasts, ready smile and casual attitude to life in general and sex specifically, would have been working out how to seduce the ruthless tycoon... But Tilly wanted no part of the man.
Did she?
CHAPTER TWO (#ub3c0b4c4-687e-561e-81a2-6692892f0584)
‘ARE YOU HUNGRY?’
He didn’t look up as she entered; Tilly hadn’t even realised he’d heard her.
‘Not really.’
She paused inside the doorframe, studying him surreptitiously from behind hooded eyes. She caught the moment he lifted his head, saw his eyes running over her figure, his face giving nothing away. She’d have loved to pull on a baggy shirt and jeans, but she’d only packed frothy dresses and bikinis. She’d chosen the most conservative of the dresses—a dark blue linen that fell to her knees.
Wary of distracting him when he was in the middle of working, she gnawed on her lip for a moment. Then, ‘My phone doesn’t work here.’
That caught his attention. He flicked a brief glance at her. ‘No. There’s no cell tower. No infrastructure of any nature.’
She nodded, but one side of her mouth quirked downwards at the corner. ‘What do you do in an emergency?’
‘What kind of emergency?’ he prompted curiously.
‘Um...any kind. A band of marauding pirates storming the beach, or any angry flock of seagulls pecking their way across the sand...’
His smile was unexpected—and so was its effect. Her tummy filled with frantic butterflies; her skin dotted with goosebumps.
‘You don’t think I could defend you against a band of pirates?’
She arched a brow. ‘I think you have an inflated sense of your physical abilities.’
He arched a brow. ‘A theory I’m willing to disprove at any time,’ he promised darkly.
And now the butterflies went into overdrive, fluttering down to her knees and making them wobbly.
‘I’m serious,’ she said, the words stiffened by disapproval. ‘What if there’s a fire, or you break your leg or something?’
‘I have a satellite phone.’ He shrugged.
‘But what about emails?’
‘I can connect to it for internet access,’ he said. ‘It’s slow as hell, but it gets the job done.’
‘Electricity? Water?’
‘Generator. Tank.’
Her mind was busy processing that. ‘Whoever built this really wanted to be off the grid.’
‘Not a lot of options on a deserted island,’ he pointed out, with a pragmatism that annoyed her.
‘I don’t know... It seems like a post-apocalyptic bolthole.’
Or the perfect love-nest for a cheat and liar, Rio amended silently. How many women had Piero brought here over the years? Whispering sweet nothings about Prim’amore, promising a future he had no intention of providing.
‘Do you need to use the phone?’ he asked belatedly, drawing his attention back to her original query.
Fantasies of calling Cressida and unloading on her were clouds Tilly would never catch. Of course she could do no such thing. Besides, Cressida had said she was ‘going to ground’ until the wedding—that she didn’t want to be seen or heard by anyone for the week, and that included turning her cell phone off.
Tilly shook her head, a distracted smile flickering across her lips. ‘I thought I’d go exploring.’
He stood, and ran a hand through his hair. His shirt lifted, revealing an inch of tanned flat abdomen. She looked away as though she’d been burned.
‘You know I only have a week, and Art is... Daddy is,’ she corrected quickly, ‘keen to hear what I think of the place.’
‘Your wish is my command.’ His voice was low and husky and her body reacted instantly, her nipples straining against the fabric of her dress, her eyes widening. And he saw. She just knew he was aware of the effect he was having.
‘I’m fine.’ She shook her head with an attempt at professional detachment. ‘I can find my own way.’
His face wore a slow, sardonic grin. ‘Just like you were fine to get off the boat?’
She huffed. ‘That’s not very gentlemanly of you.’
‘What gave you the impression I’m a gentleman?’ he queried softly, moving closer so that she found thoughts difficult to string together.
‘Nothing,’ she muttered. ‘But I really will be fine. I’m just going to walk along the beach today. If I get lost, I’ll turn back. Even I should be able to navigate my way around an island without coming to grief.’
‘Still,’ he said, wondering in the back of his mind why he was arguing with her. ‘I’m here to show you around.’
She nodded, lifting her gaze to his face thoughtfully. She caught a flicker of emotion in his eyes that she didn’t understand. ‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘Because it’s a big island and you could get lost.’
‘No, I mean why you? You must have people who could sell an island for you.’
‘Yes.’ His mouth was a grim slash in his face.
‘So? Aren’t you too busy to act as tour guide?’
Rio thought of the paperwork cluttering his desk in Rome and shook his head. Contracts for the high-rise in Manhattan. The lease for the Canadian mall. The purchase offer he’d made on a mine in Australia.
It could wait. Keeping the invasive tabloid press away from his private life was priority number one. He’d spent the last five years making sure his parentage wasn’t revealed, and he wasn’t going to let the truth come out now. Involving more people than necessary in this deal was a sure-fire way to invite public attention.
‘Yes.’
Why had he decided that distraction was the best way to get her off the scent and stop her questions? He couldn’t have said, but he moved closer, noting with interest the way her pupils darkened.
‘But I don’t really like the idea of you drowning in my ocean. Or tumbling off a cliff on my land.’
‘Your ocean? Your land? Someone’s got a bit of a God complex, haven’t they?’
His laugh was deep; it resonated right through her.
‘Until your father signs on the dotted line, that is the truth of the matter.’
She tilted her head to one side, lost in thought. ‘I don’t know if I believe anyone truly owns an island like this.’
‘I have a piece of paper that would beg to differ.’
She waved her hand through the air distractedly. ‘Yes, yes—legally. But don’t you think...?’ She left the sentence unfinished as she realised what she’d been about to say. Discussing her personal philosophies wasn’t part of the job. And, essentially, she was on Prim’amore to work.
She’d been paid—and paid a small fortune. Now she had to uphold her end of the bargain.
‘Yes?’ he prompted, but Tilly had zipped away from their conversation.
‘Well,’ she said, injecting her voice with the same sense of entitlement she’d personally been on the receiving end of any time Cressida had called and asked for a favour, ‘if you really want to waste your time playing sales agent, then let’s go.’
He arched a brow, but if he was surprised by her pronouncement he didn’t otherwise show it.
Tilly did a pretty good Cressida huff as she strode down the corridor and pushed the door to the cottage open. But the moment she stepped on to the small deck she froze, a gasp escaping her mouth.
He followed, almost bumping into her. ‘Problem?’
She shook her head, her eyes wide as they took in the sheer beauty of the spot. He watched her, and understood the wonderment in her face. Hadn’t he felt a similar sense of incredulity when he’d first arrived?
‘It is heaven on earth, mi amore.’
His mother had been confused at the end. She’d slipped in and out of her past just as a dolphin rippled over the surface of the ocean, and most of her memories had revolved around him. Piero. The bastard who’d broken her heart and left her pregnant and destitute.
‘It is as if God left a small piece of heaven just for us to find and enjoy.’
His expression was grim as he studied the horizon, seeing it as Cressida was. The ocean was immaculate. A deep turquoise colour disturbed only by the gentle cresting of waves. The sky was a blanket of deep blue, the sun an orb of white, high in the sky.
‘I feel like we’re the only ones on earth,’ she said with a shake of her head. ‘I hadn’t expected the island to be so...’
He waited, curious as to how she would choose to describe it.
‘It’s not just beautiful,’ she said, searching for words. ‘It’s...magical.’
‘Magical?’ he repeated derisively, ignoring how close the description was to his mother’s first impression.
The amusement in his tone was enough to drag her back to the present. ‘Yes.’ She forced a cynical smile to her face. ‘At least that’s what Daddy will be hoping hordes of tourists think.’
He nodded, dismissing the sense that she was hiding something from him. ‘The island’s perfect for a holiday resort. Close enough to Capri to provide entertainment, but totally isolated at the same time. It’s easy to imagine how special any resort would be here.’
She nodded, but there was sadness in her heart. Having been on the island less than an hour, she already knew she hated the idea of buildings and roads cutting across it. Of people bobbing in the ocean, boats churning across its smooth surface, voices shouting through the serenity.
‘Yes,’ she said, her frown carrying into the simple word.
‘What would you like to see, Cressida?’ he asked, and the use of the socialite’s name reminded Tilly forcefully of just what her duties were.
‘I was just going to walk along the beach,’ she murmured, nodding in one direction.
‘Fine. We’ll walk.’
He moved towards the stairs and she followed, though his presence was knotting her tummy again.
‘You really don’t have to come with me,’ she said softly, pressing her teeth into her lower lip as she tried to calm the butterflies that were having a party inside her.
‘I really do have to come with you,’ he corrected quietly. ‘For as long as you are on Prim’amore you are my responsibility.’
A frisson of anticipation danced along her spine. She moved quickly down the stairs, her feet sinking into the sand once she reached the level shore.
‘Prim’amore... First love.’ She glanced at him. ‘It’s a romantic name. Any idea of the history of it?’
‘No,’ he lied.
Secrets, secrets. So many secrets. Hell. He’d been a secret most of his life. Only in recent years had his father lifted the ban on his identity being known, and by then the exposure had outlived any usefulness or appeal.
‘Why are you selling it?’
She was at least a foot shorter than he was. He adjusted his stride to match hers, shoving his hands in his pockets as they moved towards the water.
‘I do not want it.’
She frowned. ‘You don’t want a pristine, untouched island off the coast of Italy?’
‘No.’
Her laugh was carried by the breeze. He turned to chase it, wishing it was louder.
‘Why ever not?’
He met her eyes, his smile feeling heavy somehow. ‘I already have an island. A bigger one.’ He thought of Arketà, with its state-of-the-art home and pier, the helicopter pad and three swimming pools. ‘Two seems excessive.’
‘And here I was thinking you to be a man who thrived on the excessive,’ she heard herself tease.
At the edge of the water she paused, kicking her shoes off and bending to retrieve them. She moved closer to the ocean, flexing her toes as she reached the water’s line, then stepping beyond it so that the waves caressed her ankles.
‘So why buy it if only to sell? Or was it an investment?’
He looked at her for a moment, wondering at the instinct throbbing through him to speak honestly to her. To admit that he hadn’t bought the island so much as inherited it. That in the month he’d possessed Prim’amore it had sat heavily on his shoulders like a weight he didn’t wish to bear. That the gift was unwelcome and that selling it was his primary desire.
‘Not exactly.’ His smile gave little away. ‘I do not need it. Your father has been shopping for a resort site in the Mediterranean for years. The match is too good to ignore.’
She nodded, but he could practically see the cogs turning. ‘You said your island is called Arketà?’
‘Yes.’
‘I like the sound of that.’
He nodded. ‘It means pretty in Greek.’
She arched a brow, her grin contagious.
‘I inherited the name when I purchased it. The previous owner christened it so for his daughter.’
‘I see.’ Tilly nodded, but her smile didn’t drop.
‘That and I’m a hopeless romantic,’ he responded with an attempt at sarcasm.
Tilly shook her head. ‘Nope. I would bet my life that “romantic” is not a word ever associated with you.’
‘Oh? And how would you describe me?’ He prompted, curiosity leading him down a conversational path that his brain was urging him to reconsider.
She slowed for a moment, her eyes skimming across his face as her full lips pouted. She was a study in concentration and it almost made him laugh.
‘I think it’s better that I don’t say,’ she said finally, turning her gaze back to the beach. ‘Do you spend much time there?’
It took him a few seconds to realise she was back on the subject of Arketà. He shook his head. ‘I thought I would when I bought it.’
‘But?’ she prompted.
His shrug lifted his broad shoulders. She tried not to notice the strength in those shoulders, but she was only human.
‘Work.’
‘Ah. Yes.’ She knew the demands of Art Wyndham’s schedule intimately, and could only imagine how much more hectic Rio’s was. ‘So you’re in Rome most of the time?’
‘Si.’
Tilly could imagine that. He had an effortless chicness about him that was completely ingrained. It wasn’t an affectation. He didn’t have to try. He was both masculine, wild, untamed and...handsome. Nothing about him screamed ostentation, yet he exuded power and wealth.
‘And you?’ he surprised her by asking.
Tilly almost lost her footing, but she righted herself before he felt the need to intervene. ‘What about me?’
Out of nowhere she thought of Cressida. Cressida who was so visibly similar to her that Tilly had thought she was looking into a mirror the first time they’d met. Their red hair was long, their eyes green, their skin a similar colour—though Tilly’s tanned more easily. They were both of medium height, and though Tilly was naturally more curvaceous, Cressida had bought breast and rear enhancements two years earlier, making their figures almost matching.
‘I gather you’ve made an art form out of living fast and loose?’
Tilly frowned. As always, a whip of sorrow for the billion-dollar heiress flayed her. True, Cressida’s lifestyle was a masterpiece in modern-day debauchery, but Tilly somehow just understood her. And there was a lot more to the glamorous fashionista than partying. If only she’d let anyone see it.
‘Not really,’ she heard herself say. ‘The papers don’t always give me a fair shake.’
Now it was Rio’s turn to slow. He angled his face to study her profile. ‘Papers make up stories, but photos never lie.’
Her heart thumped hard against her chest. Had he seen photos of her? Could he tell the difference? For, as much as she and Cressida were uncannily similar, they were not the same person, and it was easy to see the differences when you set your mind to looking.
Though Tilly had an answer ready for that. She wasn’t wearing more than the bare minimum of make-up, and Cressida was never papped without a full face. Even her morning coffee run was completed in full glamour style. It was completely plausible to explain away the slight differences in their appearance by claiming a lack of cosmetic help. At least to a man, surely?
‘I think people look at photos of celebrities and see what they’re looking for,’ she said softly. ‘I could leave a nightclub at three in the morning, stone-cold sober, arm in arm with a guy I’ve been friends with for years, and the next thing you know I’m drunk and three months pregnant with his baby.’
She rolled her eyes, her outrage at such misreporting genuine. She’d personally placed enough calls to Art’s solicitor, lodging complaints and libel suits, to know how frequently Cressida was photographed and lambasted for something that was perfectly innocent.
‘Am I to feel sorry for you now?’
She lifted her face to his, her expression showing mutiny. ‘I don’t want sympathy.’
‘I can see that.’
She stepped over a jellyfish, marooned elegantly against the sand, its transparent body no longer capable of bobbing in the depths of the ocean.
‘So you are not a wild, irresponsible party girl, then?’ he asked, his voice rich with disbelief.
Tilly shook her head, thinking of Cressida. She was everything Rio accused her of, and yet Tilly couldn’t stomach the idea of him looking at her and seeing Cressida.
‘I’m not just a party girl,’ she said after a beat had passed. ‘Honestly, I’m more comfortable somewhere like this. Somewhere away from the cameras and press. Somewhere I can just be by myself and read.’
Read? Hardly Cressida’s favourite pastime, but no matter. He wasn’t ever going to discover that fact for himself, was he?
‘It is hard for you to be alone when you’re in London?’
‘Yes,’ she said. But impersonating Cressida was wearing thin. ‘When did you buy this island?’
His eyes bobbed out to sea, chasing something invisible and transient on the horizon.
‘I recently acquired it,’ he said silkily, tweaking his response slightly to fit the facts.
‘And now you’re selling it?’
He nodded. ‘We’ve covered this.’
Her lips pulled downwards. ‘It just doesn’t make sense.’
‘On the contrary—it makes perfect sense. I own an island I do not need or want. Your father desperately wants an island of this size, within easy boat distance of the mainland, and he is prepared to pay the price I have stipulated. Provided you do not go back and report that the volcano is about to explode, I will no longer own Prim’amore in a matter of weeks.’
There was more to it. Tilly could almost feel the words he wasn’t saying; they were throbbing beneath her fingertips. But she needed patience to massage them to the surface.
‘Volcano?’ She moved the conversation to less critical ground. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘Absolutely. It is extinct now—a relic. The lava no longer flows in its belly.’
She shuddered. ‘How can you be sure?’
His laugh was warm honey on her sensitised muscles. ‘Because a team of geologists have told me so.’ He stopped walking and angled his whole body to face her. ‘Would you like to see it?’
Her breath hitched in her throat. Staring down the chasm of a volcano would be the most dangerous thing she’d ever done. Well, almost. The more time she spent with Rio the more she was coming to realise she’d taken a step into the terrifying unknown by agreeing to pose as Cressida.
‘Yes,’ she heard herself agree. ‘I would.’
‘We’ll go tomorrow.’
He nodded with the kind of confidence that had surely been born out of his success in the boardroom. Or given rise to it. She blinked up at him and wondered if anyone ever told him no.
‘Not often.’
She frowned, her confusion apparent.
‘I am not often told no.’
‘Oh!’ Evidently her mouth had run away with her—and without her permission too. She felt heat warm her cheeks and began to move again, along the shoreline, kicking the water as she went, enjoying the feeling as it splashed against her shins.
‘I expect it has always been the same for you?’
Tilly thought of her family. Her parents who had worked hard all their lives, who adored her and would have found a way to give her the moon if she’d asked it of them.
‘Why do you say that?’ She returned his question with a question.
‘Because I have known women like you before,’ he said simply, shrugging his broad shoulders.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
His smile was derisive, and yet her heart flipped as though he was offering her a bunch of flowers. She turned away, frustrated at the schoolgirl crush she seemed to be developing.
‘That you grew up with more money than most people see in a lifetime. And that in my experience women like you tend to be...’
‘Yes?’ she prompted, her hackles rising despite the fact he was making assumptions about her doppelgänger, not her true self.
What had he wanted to say? Did it matter that the spoiled rich girls he’d bedded in the past were all boring, entitled, selfish and dull? Why were they talking about this?
His frown deepened. He was supposed to be showing her the island; that was all. It was the kind of thing he’d never have deigned to do under normal circumstances. God knew he had more important things to focus on. Still, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let the press get wind of his ties to Prim’amore. Rio, and Rio alone, would handle all the contracts associated with the sale.
But it should have taken days. Not a week. Art had been strangely insistent, though. Cressida wanted a week ‘to really get a feel for the place’, and Art had expressed his relief that his wayward daughter was showing such good business sense.
But he didn’t need to spend the whole time taking beach strolls with the admittedly beautiful heiress. And certainly not sharing his innermost thoughts.
‘Never mind,’ he said, his voice a dark contradiction of the light banter they’d been sharing. ‘This beach stretches for another two miles before the cove curves inwards and we’ll need to climb the cliff. I suggest we leave that for another day.’
* * *
He was being deliberately unpleasant.
No, not unpleasant.
Just a big, gorgeous roadblock to any conversation she tried to make.
He’d been like it as they’d walked on the beach. As though he’d flicked a switch and she no longer held any interest for him. He’d pointed out details of the island, suggested positions that might be suitable for a hotel, but he had made it clear that he felt obliged to provide her with business information and that was the end of it.
So why did it bother her?
She’d come to the island expecting to meet with a dull estate agent. She’d brought books and bathing costumes, anticipating a delicious week on her own, soaking in the sunshine and relaxing.
But now her nerves were stretched on tenterhooks.
She flicked the page of her book, even though she had no concept of what she’d read, and briefly lifted her eyes to where he sat. There was only one living space in the house and he’d taken up position on the small table. It held his laptop, and thick files spread in each direction. His head was bent, he had a pen in his hand, and as he read one of the files he occasionally scratched a note angrily in the margin.
Unexpectedly he flashed his eyes in her direction and she looked away, stumbling her focus back to reading. His eyes continued to burn her skin, though.
He stood abruptly, scraping his chair noisily against the tiles. She kept her head bent as he moved into the kitchen and she heard the fridge open and shut.
She turned the page—again with no concept of where she was in the story.
The sound of butter simmering in a frying pan finally captured her interest, and she risked a glance towards him.
Her heart stuttered. Rio Mastrangelo was a seriously gorgeous man at any time. But with his shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbows, his head bent as he chopped tomato and fennel...he was the poster boy for sexiest man alive.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, wishing she hadn’t when his eyes lanced her and she felt her stomach swoop.
‘Stringing a fishing line,’ he replied, with a sarcasm that he softened by smiling.
He had a dimple in one cheek. Deep enough to dip her finger into. She looked back at her book.
‘I presume you eat normal food?’ he asked, with a challenge she didn’t understand in his question.
‘It depends what you call “normal.”’ She gave up on the book, folding down the corner at the top of a page and placing it on the sofa.
She stood and padded towards the kitchen, curious as he added basil leaves to the chopping board. He reached for the fridge once more and returned with fish, adding each fillet one by one to the sizzling frying pan. He sliced a lemon down the middle and squeezed it over the top, then ground salt.
‘That smells delicious,’ she said seriously. ‘You like to cook?’
He shrugged. ‘I like to eat, so...’
Her smile was involuntary, and her attention was momentarily distracted by the sizzling fish, so she didn’t realise that his eyes had dropped to her mouth and were staring at it with an intensity that would have boiled her blood.
‘I would have thought you’d have a chef. No—a team of chefs. All ready to obey your every whim.’ She lifted her brows as she turned her attention back to his face.
‘No.’
More of the stonewalling she’d faced that afternoon.
‘No? Why not?’
‘Because, Principessa, not everyone grew up in the hyper-indulged, rarefied way you did. I learned to cook almost as soon as I could walk. Just because I can afford to employ chefs it doesn’t mean it’s necessary.’
The hostility of his statement hurt far more than it should have. He was judging her—no, he was judging Cressida, she reminded herself forcibly—and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Her throat ached. With mortification, Tilly realised his harsh rebuke had brought her to the brink of tears. She took a steadying breath and looked away.
He expelled an angry breath and reached for the fish, flicking it deftly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said after a moment. ‘That was rude of me.’
If his judgemental bitterness had surprised her, the apology had even more so.
She lifted her eyes to him slowly. ‘You think I’m spoiled.’
His smile was brief. A flicker across his face that she thought she must have imagined. He reached for two plates and scooped the tomato and fennel mixture into the middle, then added several fish fillets and half a lemon. It had the kind of presentation a five-year-old would have been proud of, but it smelled incredible. Her stomach groaned in agreement with that thought and she cleared her throat in an attempt to cover it.
‘I believe you drink champagne?’
Tilly frowned, and was on the brink of pointing out that she really didn’t drink much at all before remembering that Cressida was practically fuelled by the stuff. She found it perfectly acceptable to start her day with a glass of bubbles. And, despite the fact she could knock off a bottle on her own in no time, she never seemed affected by it. Which showed she had an incredible tolerance for the stuff. Unlike Tilly.
Yet she nodded, knowing it would lead to questions if she disavowed something so intrinsic about the heiress.
He reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle—Bollinger, she saw as he unfurled the top.
‘The cabin is not exactly well appointed,’ he explained, pulling out a single tumbler and half filling it with champagne. He handed her the glass, then scooped up their plates and cutlery.
‘You’re not joining me?’
‘No.’
He moved down the corridor, pushing the door to the balcony open with his shoulder and holding it for her to move past. It surprised her; she’d assumed they’d sit inside at the table.
But when she looked up she let out a sound of astonishment.
Somewhere between their walk on the beach and the pages she hadn’t read, the sky had caught fire. Red, orange, pink and purple exploded in every direction, backlit by warmth and turning the ocean a vibrant hue of purple.
‘Wow!’
He set the plates on the small table, his eyes following hers.
‘Remember when we swam as the sun dipped down and the sky was orange? And you told me I was a mermaid who’d come from the sea?’
His mother’s voice had been crackly and faint. The last of her cancer treatments had left her disorientated and confused.
‘Prim’amore—my love, my first love. For ever.’
When death had been at her doorstep, she’d thought only of him. Piero. A man who hadn’t even come to the funeral—who hadn’t so much as acknowledged her passing.
Rio compressed his lips, his appetite diminished.
Not so Tilly’s.
She sat opposite him and attacked her fish with impressive gusto, pausing occasionally to turn back to the view, before remembering that she was starving, apparently, and pushing another piece of her dinner into her mouth.
A beautiful mouth. Full and naturally pouting, with a perfect cupid’s bow that out of nowhere he imagined tracing with his tongue.
His body stirred at the idea. The sooner he got off this island the better. Any number of women would make more suitable, less complicated lovers than Cressida Wyndham.
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes roaming her face. ‘Yes.’ His nod was concise. ‘I think you’re spoiled.’ His eyes dropped to her lips once more—lips that were parted now with indignation. ‘But it is not your fault.’
‘Oh, geez. Thanks.’ She reached for her champagne and sipped it, pulling a face when the water she wanted to taste turned out to be bubbly and astringent. Still, it slid down her throat, soothing her parched mouth and calming her nerves.
His laugh sent her pulse skittering.
‘I mean only that anyone raised as you were would be spoiled. You have been indulged from the first day of your life. Adored. Cherished. All your dreams made a reality, I imagine.’
Tilly couldn’t have said where the need to defend Cressida came from, but it was like a sledgehammer in her side. Sisterhood? Girl power? Her own childhood had been idyllic. She, Tilly, was the one who had been spoiled. Not with material possessions—money had always been tight in the Morgan household—but with time and love.
‘Yes, well, that may be true, but there’s more to life than physical possessions, and far better ways to show affection than by giving gifts.’
Curious, he leaned forward. ‘Poor little rich girl?’ he prompted, and when she kept her face averted, her chin set at a defiant angle, he felt a surge of adrenalin kick in his gut. ‘Have I hurt your feelings, Principessa?’
She reached for her champagne once more and held it in one hand, her eyes roaming the ocean before lifting to his face. ‘You haven’t hurt my feelings.’
She spoke with a calm control he hadn’t expected.
‘You’ve made me curious about yours. You haven’t even known me a day and yet you speak of me with derision and contempt. That can’t possibly be based on who I am, seeing as you barely know me. It must be because of who you are. And your hang ups. You think less of me because I come from money.’
* * *
She had surprised him and he hadn’t liked it. At all.
Her insight had been rapier-sharp. He’d judged her because of what he’d presumed her to be, and that was hardly fair. He’d have never made his mark in business if he’d carried such assumptions alongside him.
He swirled his Scotch, his eyes resting on the now dark sky.
Was she asleep? She’d finished her dinner abruptly after her incisive comment and scuttled inside. He’d listened to the sound of the sink being filled and dishes being washed, all the while pondering the mystery of Cressida Wyndham.
When Art had said his daughter was coming to inspect the island Rio had instantly formed preconceptions. He knew enough about Cressida to know what to expect. But since she’d arrived she’d defied each of the ideas he’d held. She’d fallen into the water...and laughed. She’d accepted the humble accommodation without complaint. She’d read her book, and she’d thanked him for cooking. Hell, she’d done the dishes.
None of that fitted into the way he’d envisaged someone like Cressida behaving.
She’d been right. He didn’t like her. He didn’t like women like her.
How could someone like Rio, who’d been raised in abject poverty, feel anything but resentment for the kind of indulged lifestyle that had been made available to the Cressidas of the world?
His thoughts wandered distractedly to Marina. The heiress he’d thought himself in love with many years ago. She’d been beautiful, too, and she’d seemed interesting and genuine. But she’d taught him an important lesson: never trust a beautiful woman who cared only for herself.
He leaned back on the deck, his eyes lingering on the silver streak of the moon reflected in the water. His mother had tried to provide for him. Had she not become ill, undoubtedly their lives would have been comfortable. His expression was grim as he remembered that sensation of hunger and worry. Even as a young boy he had been sent to school in uniforms that were a little too small, shorts that didn’t quite fit, shoes that were second-hand and badly scuffed.
All the while his wealthy father had refused to intervene. And now he’d given him this! A parting shot. A last insult. An island that intrinsically reminded him of Piero and all the ways he’d failed Rio and Rosa.
CHAPTER THREE (#ub3c0b4c4-687e-561e-81a2-6692892f0584)
SHE WAS IN AGONY.
Being tortured alive with every bump.
The bike was old, yet powerful, and the man drove it with expert ease. Still, there wasn’t a road so much as a track, and she had to keep her arms wrapped tight around his waist, her legs squeezed against his. She could feel his heart racing beneath her hands, smell his intoxicating masculinity, and her stomach was in knots.
Every hitch in the road brought her womanhood closer to him, bouncing her on the seat. Needs long ago suppressed were being pushed to the front of her mind. Heat flamed through her and it had nothing to do with the morning sun that was beating down on her back.
Tilly had never been into cars or bikes. She liked nice, smart, kind men. Men who had blond hair and white teeth and clear blue eyes. Who called her mum ‘ma’am’ and liked to watch the football with her dad and Jack.
Nice guys.
There was nothing ‘nice’ about Rio Mastrangelo, but her body was sparking with a desire she’d never felt before.
She angled her head, focussing on the view of the island as the bike climbed higher, around the track, but it was no use. Her eyes saw the glistening ocean, and the spectacular greenery between them and it, but in her mind she was imagining making love to Rio on top of this very bike. Straddling him and taking him against the leather seat.
She was ashamed of herself!
Then again, she’d woken up in a state of confusion and arousal because she’d dreamed about him. Dreams that had made her body sensitive. And that sensitivity was not being helped now, by the bumping of the bike along the road. Nor by the feeling of his powerful legs moving inside hers. The broadness of his chest and the rise and fall of his back.
She was in trouble.
Cressida might have no trouble getting into bed with strangers, but Tilly didn’t do the whole casual sex thing. She wasn’t a prude, but she’d never really wanted any guy enough to ignore common sense. She wanted the fairy tale. She wanted to meet a man who swept her off her feet and offered love and happily-ever-after.
Rio would never be that.
What he would be was a sensational lover.
She groaned under her breath at the very idea. Her hands, curved around his chest, wanted to drop lower. To find the hem of his shirt and push it up so that her fingertips could connect with bare flesh.
This was a nightmare.
No way could she act on these feelings! Apart from anything, she’d feel as if she was letting herself down. Where could this go? She was lying to him—pretending to be someone she wasn’t. A secret she absolutely had to keep!
It wasn’t just the money Cressida had paid, though that was a huge part of it. Cressida had begged her to play along, and not for the first time in Tilly’s life she’d felt sorry for the glamorous heiress.
‘I have a wedding to go to. Mum and Dad would never approve. It’s really important, Tilly, or I wouldn’t have asked.’
Matilda suspected that Art and Gloria would indeed have disapproved, but that wouldn’t have stopped Cressida from going. It just would have led to yet another loud shouting match, resulting in Cressida storming out and Art fretting for days over how he could handle his wayward daughter more effectively.
Having worked for Art for four years, Tilly had seen enough of those confrontations to know they were best avoided. Art wasn’t in great health, and every time he lost his temper with Cressida, Tilly worried.
No, she’d saved everyone a whole heap of trouble by coming to Prim’amore in Cressida’s place. After all, it was only a week. Cressida would attend the wedding, Tilly would stay on the island, and then they’d get back to their normal lives with no one ever knowing they’d performed a switcheroo.
She ignored the niggle of disquiet over that—and the inevitable conclusion that after this week she would never see Rio Mastrangelo again.
He turned the bike around a corner, leaning into it, and she leaned with him, holding on tight as the bike seemed to dip close to the grass on one side. He straightened, but she kept on holding him tight. Finally he brought the bike to a stop, pressing one powerful leg down to kick the stand.
‘This is where the path stops.’ His words were accented.
Belatedly, Tilly realised she was still gripping his waist and that there was no reason to do so. She jerked her arms away and fumbled her way off the back of the bike, scratching her calf in the process.
He had no such difficulty. He lifted himself off as though he’d been riding bikes all his life.
‘You’re a natural at that,’ she said, the words thick.
He lifted his helmet off and placed it on the seat, the turned to unclip hers. ‘It’s not rocket science.’
‘Still...’ She held her breath as his fingers brushed against the soft flesh under her chin.
He reached for the clasp and pressed it; the helmet loosened and she reached up to dislodge it at the same time he did. Their fingers tangled but he didn’t pull away, and nor did she. His eyes held hers for a beat longer than normal, and her stomach swooped up and then down.
She cleared her throat, pulling her hands away and smiling awkwardly. Yeah, great. Just what Cressida would have done, she thought with an inward groan of mortification.
He didn’t seem to realise. He pressed the helmet onto the seat and then reached back towards her.
His hand in her hair was like the start of her dream coming true. She watched, mesmerised, as he studied the red lengths, pulling his fingers through it, a slight frown on his face. Her breath hitched in her throat and anxiety began to perforate that strange mood.
Had he recognised who she was? Or rather who she wasn’t?
‘Do you dye this?’
She pulled a face, not comprehending why he’d ask such a question. ‘No!’
‘I didn’t think so.’ His frown deepened. ‘It’s like copper and gold.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded, stepping backwards and almost tripping on a rock that jutted out of the ground. His hand on her elbow steadied her, then dropped away again. ‘I hated it, growing up. I used to get teased mercilessly.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
Strangely, it was something that Cressida and Tilly had in common. They’d discussed the dislike they’d felt as children, for having such unique colouring.
‘Yes, well—says you, who’s probably always looked like a mini-Greek god.’
The words were out before she could stop them.
‘I’m Italian,’ he pointed out, his grin doing strange things to her blood pressure. ‘And there is nothing miniature about me.’
‘You know what I mean.’ Her cheeks flushed bright red. She might as well have blurted out that she couldn’t stop thinking about how gorgeous he was.
He nodded, apparently taking pity on her because he didn’t pursue it. ‘I wouldn’t have teased you for your hair. Or anything.’
Her heart thumped. ‘Is this the volcano?’ She nodded at the jagged mountaintop that was still a little way above them.
He grinned, his eyes lifting to the peak. ‘Yeah. The track stops here.’
‘So we’ll walk?’
‘Sure.’ He lifted the seat of the bike and pulled out a black rucksack, hooking it over his shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’
She’d packed flip-flops and dresses, neither of which were especially suited to scaling a Mediterranean volcano. But she wasn’t going to complain.
‘The volcano would make an excellent tourist attraction. I know the previous owner of the island had plans drawn up to run a cable car across the top.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ she murmured.
The climb was steep and her breath was burning, despite the fact she was generally in good shape.
‘Just say if you require a break,’ he murmured.
Not bloody likely, she thought to herself, sending him a sidelong glance. ‘I’ll be—’
‘Fine,’ he responded. ‘The thing is, you usually say that before you fall over, so perhaps we should pause.’
‘That happened once,’ she said with a laugh, reaching across and pushing at his arm playfully.
He grinned back, but it was no longer playful. The atmosphere was electric.
She swallowed, forcing the conversation to something less incendiary. Something safe. ‘Was the previous owner looking at developing the island for tourists?’
Rio’s step slowed. ‘Si.’
‘I wonder why he didn’t,’ she murmured.
‘He died. Unexpectedly.’
‘Oh! What a shame. That’s awful.’
He stopped walking and turned to face her. ‘Look, Cressida.’
He nodded behind her and she spun.
An enormous smile broke across her face. ‘I’m on top of the world!’ she said, shaking her head.
The ocean spread like a big blue picnic blanket in every direction, but from this height she could make out ships in the distance, and another island dotted with bright homes.
‘Capri,’ he explained. ‘It is only twenty minutes away by boat.’
‘So close. And I thought we were all alone in the middle of the sea...’
She smiled up at him, but the look of speculation in his eyes stole her breath. There was no way this awareness was one-sided. He felt it too. Didn’t he?
She jerked her eyes back to the view, her mind spinning, her blood rushing.

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